


No such thing as Forgiveness

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Codependency, Denial of Feelings, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Trust Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://samanddean-inthemysterymachine.tumblr.com/post/101392859033/au-where-sam-makes-it-to-his-interview-becomes-an">Original AU idea:</a> Au where Sam makes it to his interview, becomes an amazing lawyer and finds out that his next case is against a man who was charged with several counts of murder and credit card theft and on the court day Dean walks in with handcuffs on and a shit eating grin on his face. </p><p>(This story takes place in 2010. Nothing beyond Dean dropping Sam off back at Stanford in October 2005 (aka in the pilot) happened canon-accordingly.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	No such thing as Forgiveness

Like every morning, Sam wakes up to the smell of Jess' hair in and underneath his nose and, well, practically all over his face. Like every morning, he kisses her forehead and dwells on the loving pressure her wedding ring leaves on his skin where she has her fingers draped over his chest.

Unlike every morning, something is different. Something he cannot put his finger on. Jess kisses the worry away from his mouth.

He gets up, has a run, shower, dresses. Coffee, black; mind ahead in his office already. It was Jess' idea to do this together. Brady resurfaced out of nowhere but he's smart, obviously clean again and _very_ smart, and the three of them slowly but surely are building themselves a reputation. After the first five paychecks, Jess and him rented a nice apartment. After another five, they bought an even nicer one. Jess got her dream wedding, Vera Wang and the whole nine, and among their shared college friends and Jess' amazing family, nobody seemed to wonder about the groom's side whereabouts.

What counts is that they're happy, she, him. And he is, God, he is. This is what he's dreamed of, of getting out of _There_ , right? A life of his own, his decisions, nobody to bow his head for - nothing but the laws of New York city.

His desk is covered in paper, well-organized of course, but still challenging. It doesn't help to unload another heap on top of it. But he is grateful. This is good, honest work. He is helping people in a lawful, rewarding manner. He gets paid. He gets paid _good_. There has not been a single day where he had to worry what to feed to Jess or himself, where he had to worry if she returned home safe.

The past five years have been quiet. _Maybe too quiet_ , a tiny voice in the back of his head whispers. Sam shoves it somewhere deep underneath file "one of too many".

* * *

"Think this one here's a mistake."

Brady's in the door, waving a thick mess of a file. Fortunately, Sam's at his fifth coffee for today and sharp enough to jump in and out of his cases. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He flicks through a couple of pages, eyes Sam again. "'Murder'. Well, aside of another few things. Man's been busy."

Sam frowns. This is indeed strange. He cannot remember speaking to any client about an issue like this - which should be normal, since their office is specialized in other departments. ("Think bigger," Brady had said, " _Companies_. They fuck us over. Time to fuck 'em back, am I right?"- Consumer cases.) "Lemme see this."

The file exchanges hands and it feels heavier in Sam's hand than he had thought. Pages are flipped easily because of the sweat developing on the inside of his palm. Strange. He frowns harder.

So many words. His earlier sharpness seems gone, forgotten. Nervousness climbs up his stomach while letters merge into one another.

 _Harry Callahan_.

His stomach drops.

No.

 _No_.

This can't be.

"Dude, you okay?"

Sam becomes aware of the dampness under his armpits, the dizziness behind his forehead, as he looks up at his colleague. It feels out of place; everything.

"You look like you've seen a ghost o' something."

His thumbs dig in over the words "156 cases of credit card fraud" right underneath a mugshot of a white male, about thirty years old, beat-up, crooked nose, smug grin.

 _O' something_ , he wants to confirm - can't.

* * *

Sam cannot sleep, phantom pain in the thrown-out phones which had numbers inside of them his brother knew in and out. When Jess worries about his tossing, he calms her and continues his panic on the living room sofa.

They haven't talked since Jericho. That means that Dean _did_ find John, obviously, because they are like that. If there is no problem that needs help, there's no need to waste time on communication. _There's lives to be saved, Sammy, don't you see that?_ Yeah, no, he did, of course he did, but…

It haunts him, still. Their faces when he left them, Dean's full of hope again when Sam took his place on the passenger seat in '05, blank disappointment when he got him back in time for his interview and Sam had the nerve _not_ to ditch his new-found life for endless hell rides of bloody misery with his torn-apart joke of a "family".

The dreams thinned out with the distance of years in between Sam and all of _That_. When they return, though, the pang of pain is just as sharp.

* * *

The idea is stupid and he is stupid and if Sam would get away with fleeing the country, he'd do that in an instance. He's come to terms with it, somehow; pulled on one of his best suits just because he can. Metal detector after metal detector after metal detector he's drenched in sweat, bangs sticking to his forehead and this was not the plan at all. But he can't help it.

It's like the place reeks of _Him_ , old leather and motor oil and blood and some diner waitress' cheap perfume. Maybe it's all in his head and he shouldn't have come here. Then again, this is Dean. If he's found a way to sneak that case into Sam's office, he'll find a way to sneak into his life, too. And Sam can't have that. He's grown up now. He can control this. He is in charge.

They set up a room for them to talk face-to-face which baffles Sam. According to what he read in the file, nobody should be able to even breathe the same air as this inmate. Then again, this is Dean.

In front of the room, hand on the door handle, Sam's world is spinning. Suitcase in his hand, forehead pressed against the cold metal of the door, he stares at the shiny tips of his leather shoes and feels wrong. Out of place. Like this is another façade, an alias he's playing. Like a pretty fucked-up role play they're doing in order to infiltrate a prison or something. He wonders if this is Dean's plan, to lure him back in, to have him taste this insane cocktail of adrenaline and danger and violence he's tried to meditate away during the last couple of years. Maybe he _should_ _have_ taken that anger management class like Jess had suggested, maybe-

"Sammy."

He suppresses a choke, closes his eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. _You've got this._

"I know you're out there, you know. Stompin' down the hallway like a goddamn buffalo kinda gives away the surprise."

Suddenly the door is open, guided by that gravel-whiskey nine o clock shadow of a voice that used to sing lullabies to him when it was lighter, to _man up_ and _be brave_ as it got lower, to whisper sweet little nothings into his ear as its bass vibrated deep enough to make Sam's skin bubble with goosebumps. Sam knows why he avoided it like the pest once he had made it to Stanford, always knew without ever really thinking about that _Why_.

Eyes rake over him, ends of his hair down to the tip of his godforsaken too-shiny shoes, and Sam feels stripped under that hellish green, thinks he might pass out at the pale mouth that still has the trace of a smile on it. The straitjacket doesn't stop his brother from leaning back in his chair like it's the most comfortable position ever.

"Y'got big, little brother." It's almost a sigh, a tremble down Sam's spine. Suddenly, he's grateful that he was unable to eat anything since yesterday.

_You're in control. You've got this._

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Callahan." Hopefully, Dean doesn't notice the subtle shaking of his fingers as Sam puts his suitcase on the desk between them. The drag of chairlegs over tiles drums incredibly loud in his ears.

"So professional," Dean snorts.

The file weighs tons in his fingers. "You know I don't want to be here."

"An' yet you are."

This close, he doesn't dare to look up, feels that gaze heavy on the top of his head. Migraine is nothing against this. "How'd you find me?"

"Aren't you supposed to record this conversation, Mr. Winchester? That's your name, right? The one I found you by in the fuckin' _Yellow Pages_?"

He cringes.

"I'd applaud you for your subtlety, but what can I say... Kinda got my hands tied behind my back right now."

"This isn't funny."

"Oh, I think this is _very_ funny."

"I could lose my job over this, Dean; my licence, I-"

"Then leave." It's dry, but too smooth, always too smooth. The hint of a dare.

Sam looks up. Ice-cold all-too-much rests on him, spiked like barbed wire and explosive by touch.

"Why do you do this?" He's five years old again, lost, scared, without a hint of anything to get him by. He's not got this. He shouldn't have come. "Why now?"

Roll of eyes at his desperation, a rough laugh. Anger boils deep in his guts, a flame long ignored but never forgotten. "Got your picket fence up yet? Afraid imma kick it in?"

 _You know my answer to this._ "I won't let you."

"You're adorable when you're playin' 'grown-up' like that, baby boy."

The file is crammed back into his otherwise empty case. The locks snap shut faster than Sam's insides can accommodate to him practically jumping to his feet. "If that's all you've got to say, then we're done here. Our office doesn't deal with cases like yours."

It takes all of his strength to not smash his fist into the source of that snorted laughter.

"Look at you. Look at what you've become, Sam. I don't even recognize you anymore."

 _Kinda was the whole idea_. "Goodbye, Mr. Callahan."

"You know I'll find you, right?"

One leg in this bear trap, he thrashes his limbs, bites himself bloody. It's what his brother does to him: making him _snap_. "Good luck with your twenty charges of first degree murder."

An amused sigh sneaks its way up his tensed shoulders, into the roots of his hair, out of the pores of his fist tight around the door handle.

This entire thing, coming here, even touching the goddamn file was a mistake. Not that it would have mattered if he would have played along at all. Because this is Dean.

"Ask your pretty girl to put a beer or two into the fridge for me, would ya."

Even though the door slams shut between them, Sam is doomed, was, always was.

Years of running - and in the matter of seconds, he is back at the starting line.

* * *

Nothing happens for a handful of days. Sam cannot sleep for said handful of days, sees Jess being torn apart whenever his eyes slip shut - because that inevitably happens once that lifestyle gets to you. He whispers promises to the wheat-yellow halo of her hair on the pillows.

Brady sent him home after him almost falling unconscious over his work. He's a mess, he knows he is, pale and panic-ridden, hopeless. Secretly, he wishes for it to happen already. Not-so secretly, he has no idea what to do once it does.

Like that day the file had arrived in their office, Sam startles awake with that wrenching promise of _wrong_ in his guts. Dry eyes search for shadows behind curtains, but there are none. He kisses Jess' forehead for a last time before he gets up to his feet and down the stairs.

The baseball bat stays upstairs just as neglected as the discreet bullet-fed silver in the nightstand's drawer, because, after all, this is Dean. Sam might be good at fooling himself but definitely not good enough to persuade his office work shattered body to have any chance against 6"1 of pure muscle and skill. There's one thing he's learned over the last years, and that's _talking_ , talking until the opposite person doesn't know their own name anymore. He has to use that, he's aware of that, or he's done for. Because this is Dean.

It should surprise him to find the door securely locked back into place while a person who is not resident in this apartment rummages through their fridge. It should, but on the other hand, he's seen this happen over and over and over again in so many of his nightmares that he doesn't even flinch.

"Still with the rabbit food," Dean comments, de-capping two beers with one of the contents of his keychain that definitely isn't the Impala's. No, that one dangles there, catching and reflecting the fade light of the fridge right into Sam's pale face, because it has to.

Somehow, he walked across the room and is close enough to his brother to receive the bottle he is handed without really stretching his arm. "Still with that old piece of leather," he croaks, neck of the bottle ice-cold between his fingers, stench of Impala and John and Dean and monsters so deep up his nostrils that he feels like not breathing ever again.

Dean knocks their bottles together, his short, split nails swinging into Sam's lowered field of vision and then disappearing again. "To the good ol' times." Sam hears that lack of a smile, the thirsty gulps of beer disappearing into a stomach so warm he can feel it bleed onto him even over the airy distance between them.

His exhale comes with a shudder, a throb through his entire body. If his back wasn't resting against the kitchen counter, he'd be a sad puddle of nothing on the floor by now. His strength doesn't suffice to raise the beer to his mouth.

"You look like shit."

The left corner of his mouth tries a smile, a hint of a dimple, because it knows his brother wants to see that. The right one listens to Sam, fortunately.

"A stacked fridge like that and you haven't eaten in _days_."

Sam wonders how Dean knows, decides that the stench of his stomach acids digesting themselves must give him away easily. He's smelled it on his brother countless times when they were smaller.

"Didn't want to scare you _that_ much. Geez."

"Then why're you here?" Sam croaks to his feet.

Another gulp before the answer. Torture, because this is Sam's punishment, all of this. "I'd say 'Dad's on a hunting trip', but I guess that one gets old quick." Another. "Not that Dad is being _anything_ these days."

Sam doesn't want to and yet dies to know because he hates the man and he's his father and he's everything and nothing for both of them; _what's happened to him? What is he doing? How is he?_

"Never found him, you know."

Something Sam didn't know was in him crumbles away and leaves pure ache. His eyes slide closed under a frown. It's impossibly hard not to let the bottle drop from his hand.

"Well, his corpse, yes. Two years ago, I guess. Bobby 'n me burned him, or, well, what was left 'f him."

"What killed him?" he manages.

"As if you care."

"I didn't know."

" _Y'could have asked_. Called! But I guess you were too busy playin' house with Barbie up there to check on your family, huh, college boy?"

 _I had to, had to, and you know, you out of all of them know._ "Is this a joke to you, Dean? Comin' here, fuckin' me up like this, all just to rub it in? To get revenge?"

Silence, heavy enough to make Sam bow his shoulders, so broad from the years and yet easily softened to nothing. It's what Dean does to him, why he feared this more than anything. Because Dean can make him break.

"I wished it was like that," that voice mutters, distant and in his head at the same time, out of place, not belonging in this life, Sam's life; in a different life. A different time. "I wished I'd enjoy seeing you like that, Sam. Seeing you cringe and writhe and be miserable, because you deserve every fuckin' second of it, you hear me? You ran. From us. From _me_. … You can't even look at me now, can you?"

Sam shakes his head, tears in his throat and wrinkled corners of his eyes.

"Yeah, I know. I can't stand it either. But, you know - I don't. I don't enjoy it. I hate doing this to you, and I hate myself for doing it; believe me, I do. But I can't help it. I thought I could, you know? All these years, and with every hour I thought I could make it. That I could forget about you. Forgive you for what you did to us."

It's too much to hear this voice talk to him after all this time of absence. Like poison, it creeps into Sam's veins, his being. It's dangerous, lethal, but he's been doomed from the beginning.

He hasn't got this. He's never had.

"But it's been five years now, and I wake up, and the first thing I think about is you. Where you're at, what you're doin', if you're safe, if you're happy. And I couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't. There's just so much I can take, Sammy."

Sam nods a chuckle because it's true and because it's funny to him somehow, to have these words spoken to him that he only heard in very few of his dreams, the ones that leave that ache behind and have him stutter in his steps the hardest.

The dreams where Dean reaches next to him to place his beer which is a blatant excuse to be even closer, to shove into Sam's space and let him have a taste of that warmth, the salt of his sweat and iron of his pulse. The dreams where Dean turns his head the slightest towards him and where he could swear he feels that rasp of stubble against his skin.

"I wish I could let you live this here, I really, really do. You know that." Hot-moist whisper against his neck because he's long outgrown his big brother, otherwise it'd be his temple, forehead, always was back then.

"Yes," he sobs. It should be embarrassing and is, oh, it is, the worst and best he's felt in all these years, to fall apart in front of that one person that's always been his, that one person he's always been the property of without an inch of doubt to their silent promise.

The dreams where Dean leans over impossibly closer, ghosts his breath over that equally stubbled jaw, lips so close they burn their existence into Sam's skin - those are the dreams Sam fears the most.

"And I can't, Sammy," Dean tells him, his eyelashes catching on the dry skin of Sam's cheekbone, the ones they both inherited, the ones they never got tired of tracing with their fingertips and mouths and noses all those years ago. "I had to come. I had to."

Maybe he's the one pursing his lips, maybe it's another shift in Dean's jaw that drags them over each other. All Sam knows that he's falling and the edge is placed so far behind him that he cannot even see it anymore.

Dean's the one smashing them together, because he always was and still is like that, and Sam takes him in, because it's how they always did it, always will do it. They make noises in the secret space in between their mouths, scared and stumbling and dusty, but just like the first time this happened and they were just kids and didn't know nothing now that Sam looks back, they know for sure that there is no going back, for either of them, never.

Because this is what they are. What they do to each other.

Sam floats and Dean is still present enough to catch the bottle that slides out of his fist, somehow manages to put it on the counter. Freezing tips of sandpaper-like skin close over his clothed waist, digging hard enough to leave Sam's kneecaps in bits of jelly. He might be dreaming, he hopes and fears, but just then Dean sinks his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough to make him yelp and it's real, it's really happening, and Dean is _here_ and Sam wraps his arms around him because _he is_ _here_.

Their ruts find each other easily through sweatpants and eternal denim, like they've never had a break from it, like this is all their bodies are destined to do; magnets pulled to each other. Dean is just as hard as him and Sam whines again because this is _too much_ , he will die from this, and Dean shushes him just like Dad is about to wake up and catch them in the act. But they're not kids anymore, and Dad is gone, and it's his wife in their shared bed upstairs they have to keep this a secret from. There's a short panic at the thought but as always, Dean's got him, rolls his hips just right to rub all thoughts from Sam's mind.

Underneath his fingers, all little boy is gone; nothing but hardness and broken bones covered in leather. It's just like how it felt back then, when Sam didn't know the difference to anything else, because he was Dean's, always was, knew Dean's body and Dean's body alone and it always and never was enough. But now he's spoiled by warm breasts and conditioned skin and Dean feels like a rock, unbreakable, and Sam is butter in his hands, always was, but never like this.

His cock is pulled free with one skilled grip, smacks against his own pelvis and drools pathetically in the trap of it and denim fly and flannel-covered belly. Dean growls into his throat, Sam's tongue chasing the ridges of his teeth.

"Say you want it," he hisses, and even though there is no space for his consent in it, Sam chokes his "want it" quick enough for it to look like Dean wouldn't have dragged him across the room if he had denied. But who are the kidding, exactly? Who is there to judge them?

The carpet is rough; Dean's fingers rougher where they drag like a cat's tongue, under his shirt and all over the old scars, his nipples, until reaching the neck of his shirt to dig into his muscles there, to test the tendons and Sam's pulse that seems to have its own rhythm when he's with Dean. There had been times when he had been gentler, used more finesse, patience. It was before they got to know each other like they were really supposed to, like they were meant for; before Dean knew that his brother was just as lost as himself. Maybe he still doesn't know, Sam thought from time to time, during those lonely, rare occasions, during birthdays or Christmases or fourths of July, still doesn't know how much it took from Sam to not ditch his studies after the first weeks of the first semester, how much he missed the quarrels, the fear, the danger, the kisses, the sweat and hands and heat and laughter. Weeks became months and months eventually became years. But Dean was right. There is no such thing as forgetting.

"Missed you, God, I missed you," he is told, has his legs spread for Dean's humping and exquisite pressure of hands, grip of fingers around his jaw, pulling him in, eating him up. They're helpless like that, helpless in the way they knew they would be after the first few times they let it crash, the first few times Sam's tight body allowed Dean to shove his dick inside for them to fuck like animals. "Missed my boy, missed my good boy, oh, _Sammy_."

Dean almost tears the button from his jeans and Sam automatically spits into his own hand to rub it where they'll need it any second now, and it still isn't fast enough, that pull between them excruciating enough to have both of them sob when that raw tip of purple-red kisses that preciously tight furled opening along with another slick of spit, from another mouth now.

It's a ceremony in itself, something inevitable, it seems, but Sam still gasps like he always did because Dean is too much for him to take, no matter how tall he seems to grow, how far his body stretches for and around his brother that shushes him in hasty whispers, a firm hand over his mouth to keep Jess asleep and oblivious. He needs it, hadn't allowed himself to think about it all these years, but still his body tries to get away from that searing pain that he needs _to survive_ , scrambles over rough rug and leaves burns in its wake before Dean manages to pin down all two hundred pounds of it. Halfway crushed into the sofa, Sam can barely breathe, that too-long absent stretch forcing itself deeper inch by inch, breathless little "shhh"'s like Dean's nineteen again and Bobby will hear them downstairs if he doesn't make Sam choke on his own tongue.

It's not even completely in before Dean's hips start to snap, impatient little things that pound their way into Sam's body like they own him, like they know it will make Sam pliant for them. Barely a few seconds later, Dean hits that one sacred spot he has invented inside of his little brother, that he built and nourished, and Sam's eyes roll backwards into his skull hard enough to press out another stream of tears. "Shhh, I know, yeah, I know," Dean mutters against where his own hands presses down, would die for a kiss right now and Sam knows, but this gag is necessary and Dean's always conscientious with the tiniest things, "I'll take care of you, lemme me, baby; come on."

Sam allows himself to be fucked open. Hollowed out and soft, Dean's pelvis finally slams against his taint, buried all snug and then pulling Sam inside-out like all those first times after Sam's body had a chance to get a break. Dean would praise him _\- like a damn rubber band; my good little virgin, Sammy_ \- and leave him so wet and loose that Sam sometimes had wondered if it was healthy anymore, if his body was damaged beyond repair. Today, he knows the answer all-too clearly.

"See how much I've missed you? Look what you do t'me, baby boy." Because he relaxes, melts in those arms, Dean's hand pulls back, leaves his mouth and chin spit-wet and silly and gaping, eyes glazed over where Sam manages to blink them open. He hums voiceless moans for Dean to read on the little bobs of his Adam's apple, watches wet-green soak in what Sam gives away. Oil to their brittle joints. "Please don't hate me," his brother mutters into the corner of Sam's mouth, makes an attempt to lick it dry but then dives inside instead.

For a few moments, the dirty-slick sucking noises his brother fucks out of Sam's too-tight ass and the low buzz of the refrigerator are the only ones in the entire room. They learned- no, _Dean taught Sam_ to kiss this silently even before he learned how a girl's lips taste like in Lincoln, Nebraska. When Dean lets go of him, they stare at each other cross-eyed, almost unbelieving to what is happening. It's a little test when Dean fucks into him harder, more abruptly, dangerously close to his prostate but not quite. No, first he needs these words Sam still isn't sure he can give, not under the circumstances of a gap of nine years between their bodies. He forces himself to hold that eye contact, tests the give of his lungs because that air _has_ _to_ enter and leave somehow. Cold precision lets glans graze over that swollen bump of nerves and Sam's toes curl. "O-okay," he whispers, chest fluttering at another, harder thrust right into it, "Go on, it's okay. I'll be good."

"Nice 'n quiet?"

"Y-yeah," he mutters with another, has his mouth sealed shut by pecked kisses, slips of tongue over his lips, feels himself tremble and tense. His eyes remain wide or he risks to lose control; he tries to concentrate on counting the new freckles Dean apparently developed while that rhythm picks up good and fast. They came to a silent agreement that there is no "too much" for what Sam is willing to take or what Dean is willing to give, as long as Sam isn't asking for "no more". Dad had been gone for two weeks back then, and they had lots of time to kill. Sam only asked to stop two times since then.

Dizzy on too little sleep and too little food and too much Dean, Sam can barely hold on to this body above him, shoving into him, ripping open old wounds which feels as good as finally reaching that one itch that has been bugging you for ages. But Dean holds him tight, pins him firmly. He's safe like that. The only "safe" he's ever accepted, the only "safe" that seems to be real.

"Missed you too," he chokes out of nowhere into the darkness of this room, the hollow of Dean's neck, and suddenly the world is spinning and he's as good as bent in two, back barely resting on top of the sofa and knees pressed into his shoulders and Dean's hand is back because _it has to_ , because even its tight grip barely muffles what his brother unleashes in his throat right now with what he is putting him through.

"This is all your fault!" Dean grits, pace so brutal that Sam would be worried if this wasn't Dean, Dean who his body is made for, whose punishment he can take, no matter what, "Don't you come, don't you fuckin' come!"

He's gone blind and back three times halfway through it and Dean still doesn't stop, doesn't go softer, doesn't give him a single second of a break; sweat pouring from his face into Sam's because he is still fully dressed, because this is how you fuck as a _teenager_ , not as a grown, responsible adult. They never were "just kids" and never really grew up either, always stuck in between; always stuck in that motel room in Colorado where Sam let Dean slip his hand over his still smooth, hairless thigh, let him kiss his neck while Dad was away to get them dinner. Always stuck in that initial wrong-dirty-bad burn in their cheeks the second one of Dean's sweat-damp fingers accidentally brushed over the folds of Sam's asshole and they instantly knew that this was what they wanted, needed.

"I never was enough for you," he hears and wants to protest, _no, that's not it, you've got it all wrong_ , but even without that hand he would never be able to form a single syllable, "No matter what I give, huh?, it's never enough, it never is, Sammy, huh?"

At least one of his vertebras has shifted at this point and there's a dull, hot sensation where it presses on the nerves, but never pain, not when Dean is with him, inside of him, filling him up to the brim with all that he has, all Sam ever could have wished for.

"I come, and you count to three."

Sam holds his breath through it, trembling due to both exertion and ecstasy. It's like the first time again, that boiling throb inside of him that makes him all sticky and wet and _all Dean's_. He doesn't know how Dean expects him to follow his order at this rush of emotions, memories, fulfillment. Still, he manages to hold off just long enough, a miracle, and he comes harder than he thought he could, squeezing so tight around that still-spitting cock inside of him that he is sure that it must hurt Dean, but the thrusts keep coming and coming and coming and they all hit home and Sam is almost out to the world the moment his brother finally slows down.

He's pushed sideways until Dean can climb on top of him and lies down like that, chest pressed to chest, and Sam can feel the dig of that amulet, both of their hearts jackrabbiting in unison. Still inside of him, he feels Dean go soft and is too loose to keep him from slipping out. The couch was damn expensive but nothing could be as rich as the flow of come seeping through its upholstery.

One floor above him, his wife is sleeping without a worry in the world. Sam can only stare at that spot he knows she is lying at.

"I never stopped loving you," he breathes.

Dean groans.

"You know that," Sam continues, rubs the tiniest circles into that leather, "You do. You must know I never did."

"… It's too late, Sam."

He blinks, slowly. There is no world outside of this. It's all he has.

"You left, and you left for good. There is no going back. Not anymore."

This could be Santa Fe, 1998, Dean returning from that weekend with that yoga teacher and Sam being so in love that he doesn't know where to go with his emotions. Dean swoons about the girl's mouth, her pussy, while he fucks Sam's tiny white ass until it's all red and puffy. Sam huffs his first confession when Dean pushes back inside for the third time - and earns a surprised, nervous laughter for it. His brother never came around to properly reply to him.

It hurt back then, hurts every damn second he's aware of it, but never as terrible as now. "Don't say that," he croaks.

Dean sighs. "Let's be realistic."

"No," he shakes his head, "No. Don't."

"Sammy, I-"

" _I'll come with you!_ "

Silence. Sam's chest trembles.

"… Don't say things you don't mean."

"I'm serious!"

"I am, too, Sam. Don't."

"I mean it. I don't care. I'll do whatever it takes." Painfully aware of how he is nowhere better than any drug addict running right back to their misery - no matter how hard he looks, he cannot find anything that speaks against this.

Right from that moment he walked out of that door nine years ago, this is what was meant to happen anyway.

"… You'll lose her."

"I know."

"You'll put'er in danger."

"I won't let that happen."

"How can you be so sure 'bout that?"

"I know it." He grabs that arm, has to, or his brother might run. "I just know it."

Silence yet again. He can practically hear Dean's mind tick. Finally, his brother gets up on one elbow, eyes him, a silent beg for trust. Sam would give anything, gives anything, always. It's what he does.

"There's, uhm. There's this thing," Dean starts.

Something in Sam's chest opens right up. Hot, bloody, dark. Dangerous. Lethal. He rides the rush of it. "Thing?"

"Thing." Dean shrugs off the jacket, flannel. When he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, Sam's eyes go wide. "Yeah, well. It's a long story, but… I'm kind of a zombie, actually. Less Jackson, more biblical. Like, _literally_ biblical. Jesus two point o or something... I guess."

The handprint is a bit smaller than his own when Sam layers it over the mark. It's too much. He frowns, sweat from earlier turning cold.

"Was dead," Dean eventually clarifies, and before Sam can suffocate, adds, "'n came back. Long story. We could discuss that in the car. … In case you're still in."

He meets those eyes, still full of distrust. Whatever it takes, he has to gain it back. All of it. "Of course," he vows.

Dean's lips pull into that tiny smile he has for Sam and Sam only. It carves one of his own deep into Sam's mouth. "Alright. Let's roll."

They get up and Sam almost falls back on his ass, knees and stomach so weak he isn't sure he's gonna last an entire night of talking. But it's Dean besides him, Dean, so he could run a marathon if he had to.

"If you bring those fugly patent leather booties, I'll fuckin' throw them out of the window as soon as you're asleep."

Into the darkness of this moonless night, Sam huffs a laugh.

* * *

Somewhere, a little girl starts smiling out of nowhere, it seems. As she wipes her scarlet hands on the frills of her dress, she squeals in delight, overpowering the last gurgling sounds of the man to her feet.

Her eyes turn to pure white.

Patience _is_ rewarded, after all.

"See you, daddy," she laughs, "see you very very soon."

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Harry Callahan" is a character played by Clint Eastwood in the movie "Sudden Impact". It premièred in 1983, the year of Sam's birth.


End file.
